And the gibbering train of terror to fright your coward hearts.
We speak not here of sin, nor the phantoms of a bloody conscience,
Nor of solaces, and merciful pardon: we heed but the inevitable grave;
The grave, that wage of guilt, that due return to dust,
The grave, that goal of earth, and starting-post for Heaven.
Plant it with laurels, sprinkle it with lilies, set it upon yonder dewy hill
Midst holy prayers, and generous griefs, and consecrating blessings:
Let Sophocles sleep among his ivy, green perennial garlands,
Let olives shade their Virgil, and roses bloom above Corinne;